


Sangre Es Sangre

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Call of Duty
Genre: And Manuel Noriega, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Neglect, Communism, Cultural References, Fidel Castro - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Innocence, Jose Luiz Menendez As Well, Just Raul And Josefina Being Sweet To Each Other, Literature, Loneliness, Mentions of Historical Figures, Merely Mentioned Though, Other, Pablo Escobar - Freeform, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Underage, Poverty, References to Depression, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love, Social Issues, Specifically Che Guevara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10840212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: In Raul’s mind, all the greatest wars since Troy and all the ancient Greek Sagas he ever read were fought for love. His was no different. His was going to be even greater then all of them combined, much like his love. And his sister was to be his Helena.





	Sangre Es Sangre

_-”In some ways, siblings, and especially sisters,_  
_are more influential in your childhood than your parents.”-_

**\- Deborah Tannen**

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Nicaragua - Managua - ‘70’s**

 

 

 

 

 

 

A poor man has no friends, someone once said.  
A poor child - even less then none, if that was possible, mathematically speaking.  
And that’s exactly what he was, for the longest time imaginable.  
Not that he enjoyed it, but it brough him a sense of pride.  
A sense of excuse making for the future.  
That everything he did.  
Everyone he kiled.  
Was because of this.  
Because he had nothing.  
Nobody, for decades almost.  
And someone had to pay for that.

 

 

 

Well, except Josefina.

 

 

 

She was always here, from the very beginning - Raul mused. Despite of being younger, her late presence alone was salvation. A sense of belonging. Peace. Hope. Ascendance. From this communal life. The mistreatment. The disrespect. The humiliation. Going to bed hungry. Having no reliance in anyone. Anything. Sleeping on the floor of a foreign packaging cigarette factory warehouse. Almost as if though Raul began counting time and memorizing events from the day she was born and not before because hardly anything that happened before seemed to matter to him in a long, blurry haze of fear, darkness and doubt. Their father constantly being overworked. Their mother too. Raul assumed it would have been only a matter of time before they found something for him to do as well, despite of being a minor, under the Contras pressuring them. A minor? The concept of minors didn’t exist. Idle hands were the thing of the devil no matter one’s age, they said. The bread had to be earned. Bled for. Well, if you’re Nicaraguan, that is. Even then, Raul understood that some children had the privilege of playing. Growth. Carelessness. Safety. Love. And then some children skipped meals to the point where eating more then a few spoonfuls made one’s body react in nausea and disgust. He was being conditioned. So was she. He wanted better for her. Much better. Why should she be any different then any other child? Out there? In the great, wide world he would probably never see due to insufficient funds? The children of their American boss? Why? Due to chance of birth? No. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t acceptable. This wasn’t the Latin America Che died for in Bolivia all those years ago. He didn’t die so the children of these lands would work in someone else’s Capitalist factories, bear reprimands, beatings and agony. His father agreed as well - dyed-in-the-bone, ingrained patriot that he was. For that reason alone, he endured double shifts. So he could feed them. Spare them. Jose Luiz was a good man. Not that he’d ever admit to being a good man. Father was just as proud as he was. A hereditary trait. Or a fatal flaw of bad upbringing. Depends who you ask. Americans or Nicaraguans.

 

 

 

 

And yes, Raul was stubborn and justice-loving.  
His fire fueled the more he grew and realized things.  
Overly-self dignified towards himself and his own kin to live like this.  
Hot-headed, unflinching and rather rash, some would eye say.  
That’s exactly why he never begged for friendships.  
That’s precisely why he was all alone.  
Or at least, he would have been.  
If there was no Josefina.  
She was a friend too.  
A companion, in a sense.  
His second self and confidante.  
Because they were both poor, forgotten children.  
And each other was all they ever really had.  
Togetherness was a cure for loneliness.

 

 

 

And even then, he was teased by all the other boys and girls his age. They attempted to inquire what kind of kid would be quite so fond of his sibling? Quite so protective? Quite so attached? In Raul’s opinion - a loyal one.Was loyalty some kind of illness to be shamed? Scorned? He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to. His father said loyalty will be the thing that saves Nicaragua. That saves Latin America. That a man who’s not loyal to his family is as far from a man as he can be. Even animals are loyal to their brood. In order to survive. And no - it wasn’t something as depraved or as horrendously unnatural as a - what did they call it? A crush? Or as the local minister of their church would say - the beginnings of severely incestuous overtones. No. Raul liked to believe it was pure. Because that’s exactly what it was. Was there any other way to love one’s sister? When Josefina was scared, she’d crawl into his sleeping hammock at night. When she was sad, he’d comfort her with words, the best way he knew how. When she was hungry, he’d stay famished so she could eat more and pretend he wasn’t affected. When someone as much as looked at her the wrong way, he’d get into fights - in that childlike, passionate way fueled with a boy’s enraged enthusiasm.And then above everything else, during those long, sleepless hours after midnight, as they lay awake on the floor of their warehouse, listening to the gunshots and screams outside, Josefina often asked him to read for her. Whatever they had, in their humble, sparse conditions. Their father’s American boss had a trash-bin of outdated, dusty literature down in the basement. Things he didn’t need. Things he deemed unworthy. Homer’s Odysseus. Of all things. An English edition. What an odd choice of material for discarding. For the longest time, Raul had no clue what he was reading. Josefina couldn’t understand him, on the other hand. They struggled. But, they continued down the page-lines regardless. Soon enough, he realized he started making sense of the words and that Josefina listened to him ardently. Never before has a piece of literature struck such an echo with him. Even after he got beaten for rummaging in the Boss’ trash like some kind of native scamp beggar straight off the streets of Managua. He began relating to Odysseus. In fact - he began relating to nearly every Greek character from every Greek myth. Imagination was his escapism.

 

 

 

 

 

From all the shouting.  
From the dark, searing nights.  
The troubles that ravaged the streets.  
As they huddled together - so very afraid.  
So vulnerable - so very terrified - in moments like these.  
In an overcrowded factory communa filled with coughing mouths.  
Crying babies, mothers hushing their hungry, sleepless children in the shadows.  
Raul would read to Josefina - the same old lines he’s read before.  
She was greatful for it, small and sickly as she was.  
Perhaps the only joy they could share.  
This small vestige of peace.

 

 

 

 

_-”Why did so many people fight over her? Helena? Because she was the most beautiful woman alive?”-_

 

 

 

 

She asked him once, in broken English, curiously - growing fond of the Chronicles of the Troyan war.  
He knew she’d be - who wouldn’t cling to fairytale-like scenarios in a time like this?  
The young Menendez boy was a self-aware dreamer himself.  
But, he didn’t see himself as a dashing, tender Paris.  
He was actually an Agamemnon.  
Burning with fiery rage.  
Bloodlust.  
Hate.

 

 

_-”Pues - por amor. Es todo por amor.”-_

 

 

 

 

Raul answered her quietly, semi-confused perhaps - understanding that he was lying and the Troyan War merely used Helena as a scapegoat to start a massacre in the name of romance, cynical as he was from a young age and still too proud to actually speak English, the language of the oppressor, on a casual, daily basis, even though he could at this point, self-thought as he was - believing that giving in to their customs, habits and way of life entirely would mean that they won over him, over all of them, choosing to speak Spanish at all times, with an accent as heavy as he could muster, out of pure spite - somewhat uncertain if he was talking about the famous face that launched a thousand ships or the love her felt for her - for Josefina. After all, even Che said that the greatest trait any Revolutionary could ever hope to possess was precisely that. Love. Love of homeland. Love of family. Love of ideals. Love of justice. Love of freedom. Love of equality. In his case - it was the love towards his sister. It’s not something Fidel Castro would shake his hand over one day when he grew up, he understood - but, Raul assumed it was enough. Especially when she fell asleep on his shoulder mid-sentence between his response. He was convinced she would be a beauty several years from now, despite of being malnourished and unkempt as she was due to their situation - her little face illuminated by the last rays of a sickeningly yellow electrical bulb switching on somewhere in the dusty corridor leading to a shared bathroom. Josefina would become a Helena herself. A dark haired, dark eyed Latin gorgeousness. Just like their mother was. And someone would notice. The same fate that befell many women and young girls here would befall her too. They would hurt her. Touch her. Make her stand on those corner stores for hours and slap her around. Prostitute her for thin scraps of bread. His father told him not to speak of such things. That it was inappropriate. That it was unruly for a boy his age to know of such words. That he knew way too many phrases for all the wrong things. But, it made Raul’s blood rage at the very thought. How could he ever hope to defend his family if even acquiring extra food for the day was a challenge on it’s own? When they were pushed about, ignored and despised in their own country? When they were left to fend for themselves in the projects? With no future. No refuge. Raul must have, in the solace of his own thoughts, decided then and there as Josefina nuzzled closer into his neck, that he wanted to be a man of power when he grew up. Didn’t matter what - as long as it was a seat of authority. Something like the General Noriega they used the see on Television. National TV Panama, specifically. Or Escobar. Yes - he wanted to be an Escobar. A legend of his own. Above all else - Raul wanted to be a Greek champion. Just as full of bravado, daring, strength and insanity. A slayer of gods and mortals alike. But, his goals weren’t Agamemnon’s. For the sake of petty brawls, advantage and retaliation. They were, ironically, the gentle, amorous Paris’. The character he swore he didn’t relate to any sense of the way.

 

 

 

He wanted to do it for love.  
Her love.

 

 

 

For love of the only person that was there when he had nobody.

 

 

A poor child had to appreciate everything God has given it - and Raul did just that.


End file.
